The Last of Us
by InkPhantom
Summary: The world has ended. A plague has destroyed civilization as we know it and only a handful of humans remain, each trying to cope with the horrors this new world has to offer. One man will follow a path of both despair and hope to meet people, both good and bad, that will change him. Can he survive? Seriousfic. Markiplier, Cr1TiKaL, Cryaotic,Two Best Friends, Seananners, many more...
1. Bridges and Beginnings

_So I did this. In one night. Um... I just... I'll have to edit this A/N another time. So tired... Oh. If you haven't gotten what this is, this is a horror apocalypse situation with youtubers. Yeah._

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_**Chapter One**_

**Bridges and Beginnings**

Patient Zero was a doctor in Salt Lake City whose name was lost to the infection, once bold on newspaper headlines that were just washed away by months of rain. Some people say he was working on the cure for cancer, when they talk about him, if they talk about him. The truth is, when he kissed his cancerous wife, and she became infected, the virus ate up her cancer before her brain, just as it did for everyone else. Painfully ironic.

It only took months for the world to crumble. Everyone ran, but the plague spread to every corner until nothing but blood and dust and a horde of the infected remained. Nature began to retake the urban areas until the silver gleam of the modern age faded to the browns and greens of a life only our ancestors remembered. What little humans that lived fought each other for food and shelter and ways to defend from whatever those people… those things had become. As the each day passed, more and more died or were infected until only a handful remained.

In the end, as far as anyone could tell, the world had ended.

* * *

_Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep._

The black watched strapped to a tan wrist flashed brightly against a darkened room, beeping urgently like the heartbeat of scared man. White light was just beginning to peek out from under black curtains as the sun rose, its rays signaling the start of a warm Cincinnati day.

The owner of the flashing watch quickly switched it off, weary of the noise. Perhaps it was the stillness in the air or the desperate dream he'd just started from, but before he rose from the long mattress, the man waited and listened.

Nothing. Like the last 43 days, there was nothing but silence.

The man groaned as he sat up, running a hand through his black hair that was just beginning to get a bit too long for his taste. Dark brown eyes stared without emotion at the dirty ceiling as he mustered up what little life he had left in him, all the vigor and strength and kick, just to stand.

"This might be the day, Mark," just muttered halfheartedly to himself, the deepness of his voice sounding too loud in the empty house. Misuse made him sound gruffer and with anguish he remembered when something like his voice actually mattered to him. That life sometimes only seemed like a dream, not so different from the one he'd just woke from, where the number of subscribers he had defined how he felt.

The only number that mattered to him now was the count of cans he had that contained anything edible. A frown marred Mark's face as he counted, recounted, then counted again. Barely enough for a week, if he rationed, and judging by the ache in his gut he most certainly didn't want to ration.

Mark clenched his jaw and slammed the pantry door shut with so much force a nearby shelf collapsed, spilling its contents on the floor. Among the fallen treasures, he spotted a familiar brightly colored remnant of his past life that made the backs of his eyes prickle and an ache to erupt in his throat. Mark's scared hands reached for the dirty pink object, memories bringing unwanted emotions to the surface.

The once inspiration to many rocked back on his heels and sat with his back against the splintered door, a pink plush warfstash clutched tightly to his chest, crying.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to set over the city as Mark trudged onward, making his way down the interstate towards the huge bridge in the distance, ears straining to make sure nothing would surprise him. For the past 43 days, nothing had, but he knew from experience that letting your guard down would get you in a shit ton of trouble. So with one hand hovering over the handgun at his waist, he pushed on.

As the darkness finally enveloped the city, Mark grew both more comfortable and more on edge. The lower visibility made him queasy with disease, but he knew the infected that relied on sight couldn't see him as well. _Good thing they don't react to light either,_ he though sardonically as he clicked on the flashlight pinned to his chest.

Just as the clouds passed the moon and the world was covered in a thick darkness, Mark reached Brent Spence Bridge. A nagging suspicion made him silently pull the GLOCK and aim it into the darkness in front of him, moving forward and weaving though cars with eyes peeled.

He came here every single day, no questions asked, no excuses. Even 44 days ago, when all hell broke loose. But before that, every day too. He made a promise to Bob just before the line disconnected and an explosion blew out the building across from Mark's. He made a promise that somehow, if they both lived through it, they would meet on this bridge. And Mark was alive and breathing and scared and alone and hungry, but still _alive_. Every day for the past two and a half months he came and every day no one was here. At least, no one living. But somehow he still had the raw willpower to take the risk and get up, to take the risk and walk, to take the risk and have his hopes crushed. But still, he came.

The clouds moved away and the asphalt bridge lit with moonlight that reflected off of old scrapped cars.

Mark had just enough time to duck behind one before the figure in the distance could turn to spot him. In a split second he went from calm and cool to fucking not okay. Sweat beaded on his brow and the deafening beat of his heart almost covered the sound of his rabid breathing.

It was a person. Not a monster, a person. And Mark knew just how dangerous a fucking person could be. The infected were predictable. They followed a standard of rules and, though they were dangerous, made Mark feel like he was in control. But people were different. They were sick and they were twisted and they were hungry, not just for food. And they used guns. There's no respawning from a real fucking gun.

Mark stole a quick glance around the corner and saw the figure getting closer. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed that he would turn around so Mark could get the jump on him, to pull away the hood that covered his face. A spark of hope had shot through him at first, that he might have actually found Bob, that he wouldn't have to be alone anymore in this shit hole of a world. But that figure could be anyone and anyone could kill him.

_There! _The man was close now, only a few feet away from the car. Mark struggled to calm his breathing, to stay quite. He waited… held his breath… a few more steps and he would be seen… he waited…

The person stopped advancing and sighed a low, deep sigh that made a chill run through Mark's spine. But to his amazement, the man turned and began slowly walking away.

Mark was scared, but he was strong, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins made him fast. In an instant Mark had the GLOCK pressed against the back of the hooded stranger's head.

"Don't fucking move," Mark warned, his voice velvet and dangerous. "You do, I shoot, end of story." He ignored the churning feeling in his gut as he made the threat. "Get your hands away from your pockets, _slowly_! Who the _hell_ are you? What's your name?"

The man stretched out his arms to each side painfully slowly, palms out in what seemed to be a gesture of peace. Mark's heart beat painfully hard as he waited for an answer.

The strangers voice was low. Lower than his own. And hollow. Very hollow.

"It's Cr1TiKaL."


	2. Baby Girl

_This chapter is indeed a bit longer, which I'm glad for. I'm going to keep the word count around 2k for each chapter. I think that gives you guys a good enough taste of action as well as easing a bit of the pressure off of myself. I hope you like this chapter, which I feel is significantly better than the last. Just some updates, I should be posting a lot more often now that I've finally gotten the hang of this "college" thing. The transition wasn't necessarily rough on me, but I've found flaws in my time management skills. Um... Let's see. If you want to suggest any Youtubers to make an appearance in this, drop a name in my inbox or a review and I'll check them out. I want to add this story to The Last of Us category but I'm unsure if it truly belongs, even as an AU. We'll see._

_**IMPORTANT**: This is rated for language and slightly violence/graphic scenes. The entire fiction will be this way. _

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_**Chapter Two**_

**Baby Girl**

Silver light danced against pale greys and greens, flitting through thickly dusted windows into dilapidated buildings that echoed modernity and civilization. The moon was whole tonight, an inescapable orb shining light on the darkest parts of Cincinnati, glinting off of the dead eyes of the silent corpses creeping instinctually towards the bridge.

Silence lay over the city. Animals had long since fled heavily colonized areas in fear of their lives, leaving a stifling lack of ambience in their wake. The once natural hum of society drifted into only the whispers of the wind as it caressed the overgrown grass and climbing ivy.

The wind tonight, however, blew steady and with malicious intent, carrying the scent of fear and blood to the keen noses of grotesque hunters who, if they had the capacity to retain memories, could not recall their last meal.

The source of the scent came from the giant Brent Spence Bridge where two men stood with racing hearts and sweaty palms. The dark hooded figure stood rigidly, a black spot of blood growing slowly on his dirty, scarlet jacket where the other man had struck him with the butt of his gun.

"I said not to fucking move," Mark growled as he aimed the gun at the strangers head once again, knuckles white on the ebony grip. He'd tried to remove the black hood to see the hidden face, but a pale hand shot up and pulled it closer, eliciting fear and anger in Mark who swung immediately.

Rattling plastic replaced Mark's outcry as the gun shook in his hand. Cr1TiKaL stayed still this time, blinking roughly to chase away the darkness that crept at the edges of his vision. The tips of his fingers trembled, but he kept his mouth shut. Getting shot wasn't on his goddamn to-do list, especially by some psycho on a bridge.

"I come in peace," he drawled, the natural meter of his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mark's grip on his gun tightened into a painful grasp. His heart still raced.

"Why are you here." Mark demanded coldly, pressing the gun to Cr1TiKaL's head once again. The tremor in voice was noticeable. He gritted his teeth in shame.

Mark was unsure what the stranger could say to assuage his panic. Lies and deceit and malevolent intent ruled the judgment of what few survivors continued to traverse this broken world, hardened souls that they were. Bile rose in his throat and his stomach churned as Mark contemplated what he would have to do when Cr1TiKaL made a move.

"Some guy named Bob sent me," Cr1TiKaL claimed, speaking slowly and deliberately, as if to a child.

Mark's heart skipped a beat at the mention of one of his best friends who may or may not be alive. The stretch of loneliness that spread behind and in front of him was slowly inching toward an end at the possibility of being with someone he could trust. Bob sent this guy which meant that Bob was alive. Now all he had to do was find him.

Mark didn't allow the heart throbbing relief affect his demeanor, though the rigidness from his spine melted away. In a slow manner, Mark poked Cr1TiKaL's arm.

"Turn around and explain," he commanded, eyes narrowed to study the stranger's face. Cr1TiKaL towered over Mark as he turned, taller than him by nearly a foot but thin, tattered clothes hanging loosely from his frame.

Shadows danced across Cr1TiKaL's face under the red hood and no matter what angle Mark looked from, the impression of his face wouldn't stay in his mind. When he blinked the shadows moved again and his nose became bigger. Another blink and his eyes were blue. Another, his skin was dark. Cr1TiKaL was completely unrecognizable besides the filthy red hoodie that, though caked in mud and gore, flashed brightly in the silver moonlight.

"Your dorky friend saved my life," he began, grey eyes staring at a point behind Mark's right shoulder in complete disinterest. "We met on the road in West Virginia that was supposed to lead to the fucking settlement in Charleston. Bobby was headed up here to find you when some asses fucked us over on the road and Bob took a bullet in the arm pushing me outta the way. So long bullshit story short, he needed medicine and I needed to not have a favor hanging over my fucking head. Lo and behold I'm back in god damn Cincinnati to get you."

Cr1TiKaL spoke low and sarcastically, brown eyes never focused on one thing. Mark felt goosebumps rise on his arms as the wind brought an icy chill from the north. An almost instinctual urge to check behind him rose but Mark didn't want to look away from Cr1TiKaL and lose the first person he'd seen in months.

Well, living person that is.

"What do you mean settlement?" Mark asked, sliding his GLOCK back in the holster at his waste he'd made from wristwatch straps. Guns had been easy to find since everything went to hell and he only threw up the first few times he scavenged ammo from the broken and decayed bodies of former law enforcement officers. Gun shops were picked clean so the rifle Mark cleaned every other day sat on the floor of his makeshift home, taken out only on dire expeditions.

He should've noticed the bulge at Cr1TiKaL's hip in the moment he laid his eyes upon him, but Mark's experience with assessing humans was lacking to say the least. So when Cr1TiKaL used on hand to pull the red hood down over his head and the other to draw a long silver revolver with a gleaming ivory grip, aiming at the spot behind Mark's shoulder he'd been glancing at.

He wasn't on his fucking toes. It shouldn't have taken Mark this long to smell rot in the chilling wind that blew over them and he _definitely_ shouldn't have missed the faint shuffle of dragging flesh on asphalt behind him.

With a new flush of adrenaline Mark spun to Cr1TiKaL's side and leveled his gun and the two dozen zombies mulling at the end of the bridge, bumping into in unrepairable to find the shortest path between them and their prey.

"Your blood drew them here," Mark ground out through clenched teeth, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Cr1TiKaL replied without moving, his face lost under his hood but his body on high alert. Mark knew his new partner was malnourished and probably exhausted, but the expertly handled revolver stayed completely still and his voice never wavered.

Sweat began to slid down the small of Mark's back, throwing chills down his spine. "We can't take all of them," he muttered, panic settling into his voice. More and more dead were appearing at the end of the bridge, drawn to the smell of fear in the air.

But Cr1TiKaL remained calm, still for only a second longer before he tucked away his gun in the waistband of his jeans.

"These assholes are going to make us dinner if we fucking stand here. We've got to get off of the bridge and onto higher ground." The dead began to make gurgling noises in their throats and Mark's knees trembled. As some of the infected stumbled into the moonlight, their features lit up. Pale thin strips of skin hung from a woman's mouth where her lower jaw began to tear from her skull, leaving her green fetid mouth gaping with her ripped tongue hanging limply. Another man limped forward on a broken foot, face covered in the gore of his last meal, one eye bloodshot red and the other burned into an unrecognizable black mush that began to grow mushroom like cordyceps.

Then a child. A little girl no more than 6 with limp white-blond hair and a ripped pink dress with tiny flowers embroidered on the hem. Red fungus morphed from the side of her tiny round face into a disgustingly beautiful tangle of flesh and disease. Mark stared at the little girl who led a tiny army of blood hungry killers and felt frost down to his core. 43 days since his last encounter with these human like creatures that craved his flesh. 43 days since he had to shut his eyes and squeeze the trigger, hoping his aim was spot on and trying with all his might to control the pile that rose in his throat.

While Mark was frozen in place Cr1TiKaL assessed the situation with cold eyes, giving the putrid child no more than a split second's attention. In moments their shambling would bring them to the feast.

"There's no time to go back to Cincinnati. Bob told me to bring you to the settlement and that's where I'm going to take you and pay off my debt. So we need to fucking run. _Now_," Cr1TiKaL commanded when Mark didn't react to his words.

Mark's eyes were deep black and his nostrils flared, his eyes glued to the advancing girl whose blind eyes were now wide and searching, sensing the warmth of prey nearby. His ears barely registered Cr1TiKaL's words, fear overtaking him once again. 43 days. 43 fucking days for the fear to become new again, for the terror of death to burst through his defenses and take control of his heard once again.

"Sonofabitch," Cr1TiKaL groaned.

In a quick motion, he drew the gun from his waste and extended his arm forward, the long barrel like an extension to his arm. With no hesitation he pulled the trigger, letting loose a deafening _crack_ like the clap of thunder.

The girl's skull caved into itself before erupting backward with force, spattering nearby cars with pieces of brain and blood and skull fragments that clinked lightly like porcelain on metal hoods.

A strangled sob escaped Mark's lips as he stumbled back, an arm across his mouth to hold back nausea. He barely had time to compose himself before Cr1TiKaL shoved him roughly in the opposite direction with a forceful "_run_."

Mark ran. Cr1TiKaL ran. The dead behind them ran as fast as they could, the gunshot alerting their senses and exciting their limp into a hungry but lumbering lope. They ran and ran until they could no longer breathe.

All the while Mark couldn't shake the image of the little girl combusting into pieces in front of him, wearing a dress that looked just like the one Wade's baby girl used to wear.

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_Please review? _

_(I know Wade probably doesn't have a daughter. I vaguely remember Mark mentioning him being married but I honestly could be making that up. I took a tiny bit of liberty there.)_


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